


Not Alone

by MsJackofAllFandoms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Asexuality Awareness Week, Black Rings, Case Fic of a sorts, Coming Out, Friendship, Gen, John Watson Is Clever In His Own Way, Sherlock is too clever for his own good sometimes, personal issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 16:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12685491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsJackofAllFandoms/pseuds/MsJackofAllFandoms
Summary: I wrote this a couple of years ago during asexuality awareness week. Sherlock receives mysterious business cards through the door during asexuality awareness week that just say "You are not alone". He tries to figure out the sender before the week is up!





	Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solrosan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/gifts).



> I originally wrote this a few years ago and finished it late this summer. I sat on it so I could post it for AAW this year, but my laptop was in for repair before, during and after it so this has been my first opportunity since then to post it. Not beta'd, I welcome constructive criticism so if you spot any mistakes, please let me know!

It was a small card, no bigger than a standard business card, a black O in the right corner and four simple words in italicised Times New Roman in the middle.

They said, "You are not alone."

The note was not signed, but it was on quality paper and it had, unusually in this day and age, been typed out using a type writer. There was nothing else he could see that would help him deduce the sender. He would normally have analysed the ink, or simply thrown it away if it had meant even less. But, he knew what the O meant, he knew what day it was.

He didn't want to.

And there was a John like voice in the back of his head telling him that it was okay. It as okay not to throw it away, to keep it. It didn't drown out the drawling voice of Mycroft telling him it was a trivial matter. It was sentiment, unimportant.  _Oh, Sherlock. Mind over Matter._ But it... it was there. And that was good enough.

It was nice.

He stuffed it in his trouser pocket and went back to the flat with the rest of the post. 

 

##

 

There was another one the next day. Exactly the same. He didn't need two of them, so this one he did subject to as many tests as he could.

He was right, the quality was good. But still widely used commercial paper from any and all manner of stationary sets, notelet sets, scrap booking equipment. No way to trace, really. The ink, as already established, was off a ribbon for a typewriter. Though the quality suggested mass produced, not many places made ribbons anymore, so it a product of mass production of years ago. Most of the ribbons that people bought were from dwindling supplies, stock purchasers bought from other stock purchasers.

And that meant that origins of a ribbon did not necessarily prove location of the sender. But... it did give him the type of ribbon, and therefore the brand and model of typewriter.

He stood in the living room and looked at himself in the mirror. He knew that he had an odd face, though some people still found it attractive. He knew he had nice fancy clothing, though he also wore old ratty clothing when he was home, or tired, or sick. He didn't visibly look that out of the ordinary to himself, so how did others know?

He had stared at himself for far too long. John caught him doing it, and stood just beside him, concernedly. 

 "You all right?"

 He straightened up, turned away from the mirror and put on his most convincing act. "Yep. Fine. Going out.". He went over to his coat, pulled it on and did up the buttons. 

 Normal. Everything was normal.

"Is it a case?"

He turned back to John, smiled, knew it looked fake, but it was meant to. It was his standard "I'm saying this to be polite" face. "Could be. Don't wait up!"

He jogged down the stairs. Mrs Hudson wasn't in otherwise she would have popped her head out. He went out the door and headed to suspect number 1: Molly.

 

##

 

It wasn't Molly. But she did know, or thought she knew and he had to sit through an uncomfortable three minute talk about it being okay, and she hoped she'd never- she'd never _intended_ , and she _hoped_ \- and he could- if _anything_ \- ever.

He'd delete that from his mind palace later, but for now he put it in the Warning: Awkward Overload folder. He'd needed one of them from about the age of fourteen, and the less said about the reasons why and it’s usage over the years, the better.

He slumped down into his chair and sighed. He was not alone. He knew, statistically, that that was true.  But about 1% of the world population? It was hardly likely a next door neighbour was also... He sighed again.

 _Sentiment_.

 

##

 

Day three. Same card, same writing, same font... But there was one small difference: The O - Ring - was embossed onto the card. He turned it around and saw the imprint on the back. It was different, but was it all that significant? Or was it down to human behaviour of improving something to make it look better? Because it did look better. It looked nice, quaint.... pretty.

Sherlock scrutinised it closely for a few minutes and then stuffed it in his pocket and went backup to the flat. It ended up getting the same treatment as the second one. Results were the same. 

Second Suspect: Lestrade.

 

##

 

"You'll have to wait in my office, Sherlock, I've just got to-" A poor haggard looking Lestrade had his sleeves shoved up to his elbows and he was carrying multiple files in his hand.

Sherlock took them from him, looked at the names on the folder and passed them to the nearest desk sergeant. "Can you  tell sergeant Donovan that Lestrade wants her to compare Lenley's outgoing funds with all three of McCluskey's business expenses? And pass her these files." He used his most winning smile, "Thank you."

He didn't give the desk sergeant any chance to refuse or pass the files back, he just ignored Lestrade's spluttering and attempts to get the files back and manhandled him into his own office.

"All right, Sherlock. All right!" Lestrade pulled away from Sherlock and straightened himself out. 

"Oh look," said Sherlock, really laying it on thick the way he secretly enjoyed, "We're in your office. Shall we have a seat?"  He pointedly sat down in the visitor's chair opposite Lestrade's desk and waited for Lestrade to sit down as well. He stayed facing forward.

Eventually Lestrade sighed and, muttering under his breath, sat down at his desk. "Yes, Sherlock, what can I do for you?"

"You don't use a typewriter. I should be able to tell from your hands or wrists if you did, especially if the ribbon leaves traces of ink, but I can tell you don't use a typewriter."

Lestrade, confused, shook his head. "Nope. We upgraded from typewriters a long time ago. Got my daughter one, though, years ago at a car-"

Sherlock waved his hand and cut him off. "No, it's not your daughter."

Lestrade looked sharply at him, "I beg your pardon?" 

Sherlock grimaced, realising his phrasing. "Not like that. Your daughter is definitely your daughter, you can tell by the chin and eye shape. I mean your daughter is not responsible and neither are you. This has been pointless!" Sherlock stood up with a huff, "Goodbye Lestrade!" He turned and headed to the door.

"Wait! What-" Lestrade got up from behind his desk, "What's this all about? Have you got a private case or something?"

Sherlock heard John's voice in his head. _"It's all fine"_ , and Molly's, _"You know we all want you to be happy, right?"._

He pulled the card out of his pocket before he could change his mind and walked back to Lestrade's desk. He told the voice in his head, the one that suspiciously sounded like Mycroft, to shut up. He held the card out and Lestrade gently took it from him. 

"' _You are not alone'_? What's this, a calling card?"

"No." Sherlock found that he was finding the desk suddenly very interesting. "It's a... memo, I suppose. For lack of a better word."

"Memo?" Lestrade sat back down in his chair. He lifted the card up to the light to inspect it closer. "For what? What's the O? A signature?"

"A black ring. I don't know if you're aware, Lestrade, but this week is asexuality awareness week. Someone has been posting those cards through my letterbox. I can't figure out who. No fingerprints, no signature, mass produced product, only leading clue is that it was typed using a typewriter. Today's card was embossed. Or specifically the ring, everything else was the same."

He flickered his eyes over to Lestrade just in time to see the older man's eyes soften.

"Were you hoping it was me?"

"No!” Was his immediate response, and then he schooled himself because he was in control of his emotions, not the other way around. He wasn’t that far gone, yet! “Hoping? No. Suspecting. Well, there's only so many people in my life, only so many of them who'd send me something like that. Purely a process of elimination."

Lestrade handed the card back. "And you don't think it's John?"

Sherlock took the card and put it back into his pocket. He also shook his head in reply, "No. John... It wouldn't cross his mind. Any of it. Besides, it comes in on top of the post. It couldn't possibly be John, he's either out before it arrives or still upstairs. I'd hear him coming down and then going back up. Same with Mrs Hudson. It has to come from outside of the flat."

"And you don't think it's a fan?"

Sherlock gave him a sharp look, "I don't think of fans at all, if I can help it. I'm a detective, not a celebrity."

Lestrade laughed. "You've managed to become both, Sherlock, some how. God help us." He sobered up again, "Who else do you suspect?"

"I suspected Molly, naturally. She's very... insightful at times. And she does all sorts of crafts with paper and stationary, Christmas cards and wedding invitations, so naturally.... But no. Wasn't her."

"And then me. Who else?"

"Back to square one, see if it is Mrs Hudson, driven by some motherly sentiment no doubt."

"Sherlock." Lestrade admonished.

"Yes, well." Sherlock stood up suddenly, his tolerance for sentimental matter coming to a sudden end. "Thank you, inspector. This has been riveting and yet so pointless."

He left with a vague farewell, and barely heard Lestrade's in reply. 

 

##

 

Day four: No card on top of the post.

It had a strange saddening effect somewhere inside Sherlock. He knew it was irrational, and Mycroft's voice seemed to form the words "I told you so" in the back of his mind, even though the real Mycroft would never express himself in such a pedestrian manner. The words he'd say would mean the same thing, of course, but they'd have a few extra syllables.

 

The smug git.

 

He lied down on the couch to think to himself for a while. John was at work, so he had time to mull. Or, he managed it well enough until the front door opened and heavy foot steps sounded up the stairs. John. Not unusual, sometimes he came back early due to circumstances in the clinic.

"Hey Sherlock," John called over, "The doctor I was covering for came back early so I wasn't needed in the end. You want a cup of tea?"

Without waiting for Sherlock's reply, being so used to the hours Sherlock could ignore him but still drink the cups of tea and coffee put in front of him, he went straight into the kitchen and set the cups out and put the kettle on. He then returned to the living room. "Are you okay?"

There was no reason for him not to be, so... "Yep."

"Any more of that case you went out to see about?"

"Nope."

"And Lestrade couldn't help?"

Sherlock huffed, "No!" And then he sprung up. "How did you know about Lestrade? I didn't tell you about Lestrade yesterday, I said I’d been out."

John grimaced, as if he'd been caught out in a lie. "Sorry, thought you'd known. Lestrade texted me asking me if I knew what was up with you. I told him I didn’t, he just said he was just asking cos you'd been to the station."

Conversationally speaking, it was a lie. But Sherlock could tell that John believed it to be true. So Lestrade had lied to John to cover up the question, this was not John lying to Sherlock. Which was good, because John's attempts at lying could be classed as a pathetic waste of time, most of the time.

John stood there in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

"Right. Yes. Everything's fine."

John tilted his head, "Is it?"

Sherlock nodded his head, knowing he could do a more convincing job than that. "Yep. All fine."

John's face softened and he returned to the kitchen. Sherlock returned to the couch.

Two days left of asexuality awareness week? Wasn't he supposed to feel more... _belonged_ by now?

 

##

 

Thursday, mid-afternoon found Sherlock reading a book on the couch and John henpecking on his laptop when there was a knock on the door followed by the door bell being rung. 

John looked over at Sherlock with a frown on his face, "That's not a client."

Sherlock didn't even look up from his book. "No it certainly isn't."

John gave it a few seconds before standing up and going downstairs to answer it himself. Sherlock would have pointed out how Mrs Hudson would have got it eventually, but they'd had that argument before. It was boring and based on the misconception Mrs Hudson wasn't nosy, so Sherlock tried to have it as less as possible.

He heard John thank whoever was at the door.

"That was one of Mrs Turner's" John shouted up as he headed back up the stairs "He said the postman delivered some of our letters to them." He came back into the room holding the letters in one hand and very familiar card in the other. "And this is for you."

Sherlock stood up from the couch, extra gracefully, and went over to John to take the card from him. All exactly the same as the one the day before. "How did you know this was for me?"

John shrugged, "Because I just gave it to you."

Sherlock shook his head. How was such a dense man a doctor? "No, I me-"  And then it hit him, the look on John's face hit him. John knew what he meant, and his answer meant... It felt like the world had stopped. "But... how?" 

"...How did I know... that you were Asexual?" Sherlock couldn't nod, but he did look John in the eye and that seemed to speak in place of his voice. "Well, maybe you should sit down first? This wasn't what I thought your response would be. Let's sit down, yeah?"  He guided Sherlock back to the couch. "Just breathe calmly, okay? I didn't meant to upset you. Is that what the funk on Monday was about? I thought it was because we'd had no case for a week. I didn't think-"

"Please shut up." Sherlock started breathing easier, now that the initial shock had worn off. "How did you do it? You couldn't possibly had sneaked down, or even back in, to be in time of the post. It's not possible. And it couldn't be Mrs Hudson."

John nodded, "You're right, I didn't sneak down, or in, and it wasn't Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock thought through every possibility now that he knew it was John. He'd already thought of every possibility, and he had concluded it just wasn't possible for it to be John. But it was... _But how?_ Sherlock wasn't sure which was more unsettling, that it had have been John, that John had _known,_ or that he'd missed a rather big sign somewhere along the way because he'd missed it being John.

“I say this with the greatest respect, Sherlock,” John said, with just a hint of amusement coming through his voice, “But sometimes you are too clever for your own good.”

Sherlock turned his head and glared at John. How did John go so quickly from comforting him to insulting him?

John held a hand up, “No, just, listen, all right? You're probably thinking things over in that big busy brain of yours of a super secret plan, me sneaking around, bribing people, who else knows what? Maybe even some James Bond gadgets!” John laughed, “But all I did was ask at the local post office depot if we were due to have the same post man this week.”

Sherlock couldn't believe it. The post office depot!?

“And then I asked the postman on Friday," John continued, oblivious of Sherlock's inner thoughts, “If he wouldn't mind putting the card I'd leave wedged behind the door knocker through the letterbox. It's not strictly allowed, but I think he's used to our eccentricities by now, especially after last christmas. Obviously yesterday got messed up somehow, maybe it fell off and just blew away.”

It was... so simple. John had just asked, and there was nothing sinister even intended. Sherlock felt a bit cheated. _All that deducing and it was John and all he’d done is ask a bloody postman._

 Something must have shown on his face, because John's hand returned to his back. “Sherlock? If I'd have known it was going to upset you, I wouldn't have done it.”

“ _Why_ did you do it?”

John's hand remained on his back as he answered, “I suppose I did it for two reasons. The first was because, last year, I saw you glancing at a black ring when we did that jewellery shop case, and you glanced at it for just a split second but, there was something about it, I could tell." 

Sherlock nodded. He remembered the case, he remembered the ring. It was a nice, simple tungsten wedding ring, black. And he had just glanced at it for maybe a second longer than he'd have needed to in normal circumstances.

“At first I thought it was something to do with the case, but then it never came up. And you didn't mention it, so I let it go. And then I heard of asexuality awareness week and black rings, and I remembered the ring. But if you'd have wanted the ring, you would have bought it yourself. And I don't think you did, did you? Because you've not been wearing it. Even I would have noticed that.”

Again, Sherlock nodded. “John Watson, you appear to notice a lot more than either of us give you credit for.”

John smiled, “Now _that_ is a compliment. Anyway, to finish reason one, you obviously didn't want the ring, or at least want to wear one, so I got you something a bit less flashy. Although, god knows you _do_ love being flashy with your purple shirt and swirly coat.”

Sherlock wanted to aim for indignant but he laughed instead. It was true, his coat could swirl, and it was marvellous for dramatic exits.“What was the second reason?”

“Distraction.”

Sherlock screwed up his face in confusion. “Distraction from what?”

“From the lack of a case. I thought, it's obvious that it's _me_ , and you'll get so annoyed at everything about it because you hate _obvious things_ and _sentiment,_ you won't mind about the lack of a case for a whole week. I was thinking you'd just say ' _Stupid John, I know I’m not alone, now stop wasting the postman's time and find me a case_!'”

“Ah.” 

John nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that part didn't go as well. I'm very sorry if I made this week difficult for you.”

“No,” Sherlock started, “It's... fine...” he finished, weakly. “You meant well.”

He knew how much he sounded like his mother at those words, and he hated it so very much. But it was making John laugh, so it couldn't have been all that bad...

John lifted his eyebrows up in that way that Sherlock had come to recognise as fond disbelief.  “Ah, 'You meant well'. Right.” He scoffed through his nose, “Well then I'm glad that's cleared up then!” John clapped him on the back for good measure before removing his hand to rest it on his own knee. “In all seriousness, are you okay?”

Feelings of awkwardness started to bubble up somewhere just left of where John's had had been, but he tried to quash them down again. “Yes. How did you, erm... know?”

Although it was obvious that Sherlock had currently gone back to his minor emotional distress over the topic, John remained speaking and sitting as casual as possible. “That you're asexual?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“I think the first clue was that conversation we had at Angelo's, that gem always stuck with me. Then there was, well, no boyfriends or girlfriends that I ever saw or got introduced to, you have made it perfectly obvious what you think of romance and sexual encounters. You've sneered at mine often enough! And then there was the ring. And I know I'm not the detective in this friendship, but I can put a few things together.”

He could, Sherlock agreed, and he did. And he'd been _obvious,_ but now there was John's real voice telling him that that was okay.

“And just in case there was any doubt in that big brain of yours,” John said, “I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone. It was a pathetic case to annoy you with, and you really aren't alone. And it is all fine, just for the record.” John finished his little speech, because that was the only way Sherlock could describe the end of John's reply, a _speech_ , with another warm pat on the shoulder.

Sherlock wanted to say everything about this conversation was hateful and unnecessary... but it was nice. Sort of. If he'd have been used to such a thing, he'd definitely say it was nice. And then a thought struck him, there one resolving issue that had yet to be answered that seemingly had no sense to it. “What was with the embossed ring? Why were the first two not embossed and then the rest embossed into the card?”

John's mouth twitched. Not the amused twitch of someone else doing something funny they shouldn't have, the self-deprecating twitch that occured when there was something in his control that had not come out to his liking. “Ah, that's another simple-below your smart-dar answer.”

 _Smart-dar...?_ Sherlock noted it for later, but let John continue on.

“The cards I used are printed out in threes, tens, hundreds and then thousands, and they come with two sample cards. I could have bought ten, but when three with two samples would have done the job at a much cheaper price, I just went with that instead. Sorry, I know it's no locked room murder mystery.”

It wasn't, no, that much was very true. But it had made for something bordering on interesting week. Emotionally exhausting, yes, if Sherlock was one to admit that kind of thing, but... it had kept him busy for the most part.

He was not alone, and it was all fine.


End file.
